Page 2 of Riding Hard
I nod and resume my work while I listen to his deep and soothing voice.
“Anyway,” he continues, “the whole build has been a real pain in the ass.”
My gaze narrows. “Yeah, so now tell me what you’re really thinking about.”
He pauses for a long moment. “Nosey little thing, aren’t you?”
I bite back a smile. I don’t know why being called a‘little’anything gets me giddy, but it does. Maybe it’s because I’ve been a lot less thanlittlemy entire life. I’m tall and I’m thick. I got it from my parents. They like to say farm stock is grown differently. Now, all we need is a farm.
“I’m not nosey, I’m perceptive. Do you want to be a ballerina or something?”
He huffs out a hearty laugh and the ink gun shifts.
I glance up. “If that line’s fucked up, it’s on you.”
He nods. “Agreed.”
“So,” I refocus on the upper right-hand corner, “what are these big dreams you have?”
“I really don’t talk about this shit with anyone.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything.” I grin without looking up and adopt some British accent that I’ve never heard myself use until today as I say, “Come on now, lad. Buck up and tell me your deepest desires. What opportunities are you trying to catch?” Okay, maybe it’s not British. Now it sounds more Irish.
He doesn’t mention the strange accent, but my cheeks burn red.
“I don’t know why this shit is so hard to talk about.”
What the hell is this dude going to say? Maybe the ballerina thing isn’t too far off… not that I’m judging.
I glance up at the giant biker, wondering what in the world could be so hard to say out loud. “The good thing is, I’m kind of a stranger, so I have no stock at all in anything you say. I mean, I’m sure I’m going to get all kinds of confessions sitting here. Henry… you know Henry, right? He owns the shop. Well, he talks about this woman who traveled all the way from Germany for a tattoo from him… and she told him she’d buried her husband under the barn.”
Diesel finally looks toward me.
“So your dreams can’t be that bad.” I clear my throat. “But if you have a wife that you’re desperate to bury, please keep it to yourself.” I laugh and refocus on the art.
“Nah. She died years ago.”
“Damn.” My stomach turns. I’m such an idiot. “That’s right. I’m so sorry. I just got carried away in the story.”
“No. You’re fine. It’s been almost fifteen years now.” He sighs. “She’d be kicking me in the ass to move on. She had a good sense of humor and the only wish she ever had was that everyone was happy.”
I stay quiet, afraid to say the wrong thing.
“Anyway,” he sighs, “I never moved on. I was busy raising Amber, and then, I don’t know, life got easy alone.”
“So, it sounds like you’re happy on your own. Is the opportunity you’re hoping for is to find someone?”
“Happy is an over statement. I’m looking for that genuine feeling again.” He says the words simple and flat as though it should be easy to find, but he can’t figure out why it’s not.
“Truthfully,” I work on the ink as I talk, “in my experience, it’s all bad news, anyway. Trusting another person to be careful with your heart is like trusting a four-year-old not to stick a fork in a light socket. The pain is going to happen eventually, no matter how much you try to stop it.”
He laughs. I anticipate the shift and lift the gun from his arm. “I’m well aware. That’s why I’ve enjoyed being single. But… the older I get, the more I realize how badly I miss the companionship and the shit that goes along with it.”
“Is that a nice way of saying you miss sex?”
His eyes widen. “That too, I guess. I was thinking more mundane things like Sunday morning shopping trips, Friday nights around the fire, and quiet conversations over dinner. But yeah, sex would be nice. It’s been far too long.” He swipes his hand over his face again as though he’s nervous. “I’m telling you too much. It’s your turn. Why did your dad kick you out?”
I draw in a heavy breath and ink the final shadowed spot of the heart on his tattoo, then wipe away the ink. “We’re all finished. I guess we’ll have to chat about me some other time.”